


Rotoscoped fReak

by Random_ag



Series: Pitch Black and Sepia Nightmares [1]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, long story short joey is FUCKED, theres a link to my tumblr post about this au in the first line, this comes before Angered Angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 07:17:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17421464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Summary: There's no way he can outrun him.





	Rotoscoped fReak

There’s [nothing](https://randomwriteronline.tumblr.com/post/176956501175/random-has-an-au-jesus-help-us) right in who looks at him.

 

From the agonizing motions his appendages make when writhing in pain every now and then to his many, too many eyes, some pie-cut, some so human it’s stratling, all staring down at the man he’s sewn to the pole he stands in front of on his mangled, several legs.

Sewn. With black threads that seep through his clothes as if liquid, icy cold and wet. The same kind one of his hands is using in this very moment to pull together the shoulder falling off of his body because of a big, deep cut. It’s a precise mechanical movement; he isn’t paying attention to it, not even checking it to make sure he’s doing it right.

 

All of his focus is on the one before him.

 

**How are tables easy to turn.**

 

That is the most horrible voice he’s ever heard - it’s a bunch of tones and intonations taped together without care.

 

**Just to think the last time you saw me, I was up on yours.**

 

His many irises blink at different times while his body oozes and drips ink all over the place, not much different from the monsters he’s seen already. He can’t really understand who it is.

But there’s something in the way he speaks softly, and in how he mends his terrible wound that feels familiar. It’s when he starts to move as he speaks, with too many arms and legs but still so endearingly, like a soft dance, he realizes. He looks and sees him so imperfect and horrifying and awfully grottesque and yet, he knows, this was one of the most handsome men he’d ever laid eyes on.

 

It seems as though the Machine didn’t know who to give his body to, after lending it to rotoscope so many characters.

 

His breath comes ragged and painful from a mouth on the side of his jaw that looks more like a long and deep cut, and all of his muscles clench as pain seeps through them.

 

**Oh, God knows just how much I would love to kill you.**

 

Those words turn his blood solid with fear. He leans onto him and he can see just how many and how sharp the teeth hidden in his mouths are.

 

**Right here, right now.**

 

His breath is colder than ice as it licks the sides of his face hungrily similar to a starving ghoul’s tongue.

 

**But it wouldn’t be polite. Taking the best part all for myself.**

 

So kind. In a twisted way, he remained so.

 

He waits terrifiedly for him to leave, for the door to close behind his scarred back, and finally he clenches the small knife in his hand. Manouvering it is made hard by the way he’s been sewn, but he manages.

Liberty at last.

 

But there’s no safety yet.

 

The plank of wood he places against the door is strong enough to keep it close even as several punches try to break through it. He flees as enraged insults rise from behind it together with a bunch of mindless blobs in the vaguest shape of men, which he tears to droplets.

 

His escape leads him to a door, an exit, just behind a pool of thick darkness.

Getting his pants wet and stained is the least of his worries. Such a thought barely scraps the surface of his conciousness as his healthier ankle falls in the liquid, anticipating the sweet freedom just a woad away.

 

The ink breaks.

 

Shiny pieces of gold divided in thousand little specks sets on him with the rage fit for the unfortunate child of a wasp and an eel.

 

A hundred mouths snarl with a voice so unnatural it’s chilling.

 

**Y o u  f i l t h y  c r e a t u r e .**

 

There’s no way he can outrun him.

 

At least ten legs with just as many arms move faster than a limp and a sane foot, although they may be more difficult to command in such a tiny space as the one they are racing for their lives in. The way he moves as he chases is inconclusive and messy and horrible, so the prey turns away from him horrified and attempts to focus all of his energies on running.

Somehow, he’s successful.

He gains distance, he gains advantage.

It’s there, right there, a door, just a couple of steps.

 

His hair is yanked back. His head is turned.

 

A dozen hands press madly on his throat, squeezing harder than they can, fueled by an anger that never manifested before and that is screaming in his face how much of a putrid excuse of a man he thinks he is.

 

 

And the raw fury in those thousand, beautiful, gold-glimmering eyes he’s forced to watch as he struggles to breath is all that fills his mind in his last moments. His hands try to fight the clutches around his neck and his mouth is wide open, gasping for oxygen that won’t reach his lungs.

 

 

Then he stops, and his hazy vision burns to white as his body begins losing warmth and will.

 

Kim breaks his neck for good measure.


End file.
